


As great a pang of heart

by sageness



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Slings & Arrows
Genre: Canon - TV, Community: midsummerfic, Crossdressing, F/M, Genderplay, Identity Porn, M/M, Pre-Canon, Roleplay, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Burbage does <cite>Twelfth Night</cite>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As great a pang of heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helens78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/gifts).



> Written for Midsummerfic 2010. HUGE thanks to Petra for beta &amp; encouragement.
> 
> Twelfth Night in sixty words or less:
>
>> Shipwrecked Viola pretends to be a boy named Cesario to serve at Duke Orsino's court. Viola falls in love with the duke, but he's infatuated with wealthy, disinterested Lady Olivia. Orsino sends Cesario to woo Olivia on his behalf, but Olivia falls headlong for Cesario (while her household goes haywire)—and THEN Viola's missing twin brother Sebastian shows up. *g*

"Act two, scene four, please."

Oliver frowns through Geoffrey's delivery of "Give me some music," and stops him, waving a hand. "Take off your shirt."

"I—what?" But he's already taking it off.

"You're the duke. You're at home in your palace. Minions, Geoffrey, surround you. Get comfortable. Get demanding, for heaven's sake!"

"I know the text," he protests.

"You're surrounded by a number of men waiting to cater to your slightest whim. And you're getting off on your longing for a woman you can never have."

Geoffrey blinks. "You want me to jerk off on stage?"

Oliver laughs. "If only we could get away with it. Might spice this place up a bit, wouldn't it?"

There's a round of catcalls and laughter from the rest of the company. Geoffrey glances over at Ellen, who's standing stage left, and she winks at him.

"No," Oliver says, "simply be the spoiled, narcissistic brat Orsino is, darling."

They run through everything, with Oliver reworking the blocking of every other line, making everything more and more sexually charged.

The Fool's song ends with Orsino in paroxysms of self-pity, and Cesario clasping his hand in a slow, skin-to-skin breach of propriety that yanks the Duke back to reality as much as Feste standing there waiting to be paid.

"Holy crap," he hears someone in the audience say. No kidding. Oliver's fucking brilliant when he wants to be.

Orsino sends the minions away, and Oliver stops him. "No, darling. Feste leaves. Ellen, come upstage just a tick. Now, Orsino, notice this boy."

Geoffrey looks. Feste is rushing off. The half dozen musicians and servants are wallpaper. Cesario is suddenly so much more than he was in their last scene together. Ellen's doing something, something to practically glow at him, but he isn't seeing Ellen, or even Viola; he's seeing Cesario.

"Yes," Oliver says.

"Let all the rest give place," Geoffrey says, quiet this time, attention focused solely on Orsino's boy.

"Now, Viola turns to go," Oliver says, "and Orsino, you'll stop her with a hand on her shoulder, and then the other, and you'll—"

"Stare at my ass for a while?" Ellen suggests.

"No hardship," Geoffrey answers.

It ends with Orsino embracing Cesario when her voice cracks on 'brother'. "Hold him off slightly, Viola. We can't have him feeling you up to the point of discovering the absence of your family jewels."

Ellen laughs, and then her face goes quizzical. "I could pack, I suppose, if you wanted Cesario in trousers tight enough to show it."

Geoffrey's eyes go wide, but Ellen's always been the sexually adventurous one. If it exists, she's heard of it and has at least considered trying it.

Oliver rubs his chin, squints at them, and slowly nods. "If you're up for it, so to speak." There's laughter from the company. "And if we put you in one of those binding vests to do away with your bust, then you—as Cesario—could risk a bit more physicality here. Ooh, yes. Thank you, Ellen."

Geoffrey swallows hard. He's never been less interested in Orsino sending Cesario off to woo Olivia.

 

**

 

Home. Forget the bar. They've spent half the afternoon on the verge of making out at Oliver's direction, interspersed with orders to stand, sit, crawl, pull Cesario down or push him away, within considerations of just how far Viola would go to please her lord—and have the play still work as a comedy.

Home. Geoffrey drives them to Ellen's house. He runs some stop signs on the way. Ellen, bless her, doesn't say a word about sex, or even about rehearsal.

They get inside and Geoffrey is so achingly turned on, he's half-tempted to take Ellen against the door, never mind the glass or the neighbors. Ellen's dropped her bag and coat. Her shoes come off. Then she's shoving Geoffrey's coat off his shoulders; it falls in a graceless heap. He ignores it, kissing Ellen. "I think I've been hard all day."

She smirks and rubs her body against his. "When I went to the ladies after the blocking, my panties were soaked right through." He laughs. "Sorry, I know, too much—"

"No." He kisses her again, grasping her hips and grinding against her belly. It's sweet torture and he has to pull back. He has to touch her face, her reddened lips, her smooth cheek. "Sweet Cesario." It's out without intention and Ellen almost says something catty. He can see her stop and reconsider speaking, and instead pull the cloak of Viola back around her; the role of Cesario snaps back into place like, well, a tailored costume if not quite skin. He feels his cock twitch, and god. He can't take much more of this. He strokes Ellen's cheek—no, Cesario's cheek—and holds his breath.

Mischief or—he isn't sure—fascinated curiosity, possibly, lights Ellen's eyes. Then she's fully Cesario, touching his chest with adoration and deference. "My lord."

Geoffrey groans with the effort of not coming in his pants. Why aren't they upstairs already? Is there a reason they shouldn't fuck on the floor?

He rips open his trousers. Cesario steps back, smiling. "I think it well, my lord."

Jesus. Geoffrey strokes her face, her lips, her throat, echoing the blocking they'd worked on all afternoon. He's inarticulate, eyes fixed on Cesario's mouth. "Diana's lip is not more smooth and rubious," and thank god Ellen's used to hearing weird shit from him in bed. All his blood's in his dick. "Fuck."

There's laughter in Ellen's eyes, but Cesario's dropping to his knees and sucking in Geoffrey's cock with—oh, fuck, she's completely in character—a determined innocence. Not fumbling inexperience, but Viola's earnest passion.

"Oh." He's shaking with it. "Dear lad," Geoffrey moans, plunging fingers through Cesario's shoulder-length hair. And then his orgasm drowns out everything.

 

**

 

It takes the edge off, but only just. After, he hauls Ellen to her feet and kisses her like his world depends on it. She wraps her arms around his neck and wriggles against him. "My turn." This kiss has more than one bite in it, and her fingers on his neck are leaving nail marks.

He peels off her shirt. "Yes, it really is."

They race up the stairs, trailing clothing, and fall into a naked squirming heap on the unmade bed. She looks, from the shoulders up, exactly as she had on stage. She's all fierce, bright energy, still at least partly in character. Geoffrey isn't completely out of his Orsino headspace, either—he and Orsino are both head over heels for this girlish boy or boy-shaped girl, and it's bringing up feelings neither of them is prepared for.

"My lord," she says, taking Geoffrey's cock in hand. He never softened after the first time, not even halfway. She'll have him ready to fuck again in no time, and if every rehearsal is going to involve half a day of onstage foreplay, they'd better get this out of their systems fast.

"You are lovely," he manages.

Her lips twitch, and that's absolutely a dare in her eyes. "Orgasms are lovely, darling."

He fumbles for a line, any line, that would fit, that would work—and speeches on cruel Olivia, no. All he can remember is the first scene workshop, with Oliver shouting at him to start acting like he owns every bloody thing he can see, human and otherwise, so fucking swagger, goddamnit.

On the divan that afternoon, Orsino had made an art of studying Cesario's ass, caressing his face, raking fingers through his hair. He echoes the touch now, and Ellen leans up, eyes dark, and kisses him. "As I am a man," she purrs, "I am desperate for my lord's love."

He kisses her hard, and again, longer, and then slides down her body, spreads her thighs, and finds her clit with his mouth. She moans when his tongue touches it and gets louder when he wraps his lips around it and sucks it in like the tiniest possible cock.

"Oh, god, inside me!" she yells, but he won't. No, now he has a plan. He yanks open the nightstand drawer one-handed and comes back with lube and a condom. He's still sucking and nibbling at her, sending beautiful shudders through her body as she writhes against him.

"Turn over," he says, shifting back. She's shaking, she's so keyed up, and she sprawls flat, arms outstretched and face planted in her pillow. As pliant as a willow branch, and this is hardly Ellen at all. Orsino would, oh, certainly he would.

Geoffrey arranges Cesario, pulling Ellen's legs together, pulling her arms in from their loose pose to nestle close by her sides and hide the swell of her breasts. He straddles Cesario's thighs, better to stroke up the smooth expanse of back. His boy. Viola lies underneath, of course, and Ellen above and below it all, but for now, Cesario—a fiction of a boy who wants to be loved, who wants only to serve. Forget Viola's motives, pecuniary and otherwise. Cesario's are the only ones that bear any importance to Orsino.

Ellen turns her head, and then wriggles her hips, impatient.

"Mmm, Cesario." It's nearly a growl, and she shivers. "As you are a man," he murmurs, and slips in a lubed finger. She whimpers, but it's the good whimper of 'oh god, yes, now.' He shifts back a little, bracketing her knees, and focuses on making it good, on getting Cesario open and slick enough to take him.

He adds another finger and sets to kissing down Cesario's spine: square shoulders to slim waist and narrow hips, down to the crease where ass meets thigh, using his teeth a little. Cesario's squirming on his hand now, and for a thoughtless second Orsino reaches down to lay a thumb along the perineum and cup Cesario's balls. His thumb presses against swollen vulva instead, and flies off as if stung.

Geoffrey looks at his left hand for a moment, feeling weirdly betrayed. Then he pulls his fingers free, busies himself with the condom, and, straddling Cesario's hips, presses the head of his cock against Cesario's opening. "My boy," he says, and he's filled with an unnamable ecstasy.

Cesario moans, and Orsino pushes in. From this angle, it's work. He braces his arms and fucks downward, eyes squeezed shut both with effort and with the strangeness of taking pleasure from a passive body. Normally, that's Ellen's role, while Geoffrey lies back and takes direction. It's strange and new.

But, no, Cesario is not quite this passive. Geoffrey pulls out and lifts Ellen by the hips until her knees are under her. Then he shoves back in. That gets him a scream, the good kind, not the 'fucking ow, you bastard' kind. Orsino does it again, and so does Cesario, working his hips in time, greedily, now that he can. Geoffrey leans forward and kisses the back of Cesario's neck, smelling Ellen, and that takes him back to the afternoon, to the moment when Oliver had them try spooning together on the divan while holding forth on feminine love and Orsino's oceanic hunger.

"Oh, yes," Orsino says, licking a stripe down salty-smooth skin. Then he takes a shivering, quaking Cesario by the hips and gives the boy everything, everything.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> first posted: [here](http://community.livejournal.com/c6d_universe/63624.html).


End file.
